


enough

by vanceypants



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Space, Child Murder, Childhood Trauma, Chrissie is a vulnerable baby boy at every age and stage of his life, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Row, Death Threats, Disabled Character, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Rape/Non-con, Incest, Intersex, M/M, Manipulation, Sexual Coercion, and his dad is a nasty freak, infantilizing and condescending bullshit, weirdo unrealistic sci-fi prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27477925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants/pseuds/vanceypants
Summary: “You’ve signed all the papers, but I must ask, are you certain you want to go through with this?”“Yes.”“And you accept the consequences, no matter what he decides to make of you in his final hours?”“Yes.”“You’re just so young,” The guard said again.  Translated or not, the sorrow was evident in his tone.Nineteen years old and still perpetually trapped somewhere at twelve, the same age he was when his father was sentenced, Christopher has one final opportunity for closure with the monster who raised him.  The planet's rules are clear that there will be no intervening on his behalf for the next 12 hours, leaving him all the more aware of how much he needs to make this moment count.  But Archelaus has other ideas for what his son truly needs.
Relationships: Archelaus/Christopher
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24
Collections: Idol Hands





	enough

**Author's Note:**

> Another AU take on these OCs, though this time I've bumped Christopher's age up a bit. While the actual sex scene here takes place between two adults, there are heavy implications about past childhood trauma and rape.   
> Obviously the prison setup is nowhere near realistic by earth standards, but that's why I threw it into unrealistic space, babey!   
> This work straddles that fictional line between full non-con and dub-con. Obviously in a real life setting, there would be no line, it would all be considered rape. I just make the distinction to indicate tropes you may see within this work and the general mindset of the protagonist.  
> With all that being said, welcome to this week's episode of _Chrissie And Archie: This Time In Space, Still Lewd As Ever_. It's, uh, it's a working title.

The simple truth of the matter was, Christopher had never planned on living as long as this in the first place. And so, as the guard reiterated his rights, or lack thereof, instead of feeling dismay or anxiety or second thoughts, he felt a cool wash of relief at being able to tuck away the autonomy of adulthood and, if just for this one final night, play the role of helpless little boy again.

That was really fucked up. Not for the first time, he was relieved that he’d been able to convince Moses not to come along.

Adeona II, a dwarf planet on the outskirts of the Orcus cluster, was a brittle iceland that, if Christopher had time to admire it, might have even been pretty to behold. The dwellings were tiny, the natives perpetually wide eyed cyclopses, nearly translucent flesh over the gooey flexibility of their bones. The prison itself was large by Adeonan standards, the ground-level floor filled with minor offenders, thieves and tax evaders and the like.

It was the lower level that beckoned Christopher. High risk inmates. Dangerous criminals.

Death row.

Christopher’s own body felt rigid and plain within his chair, as the guard’s gargled accent spoke into his translator, the service elevator jerking back and forth against primitive wiring and cogs. “You do understand,” He gurgled, “that once you’re inside, we won’t be intervening until the time of his execution.”

In other words, Christopher mentally translated the translation itself, once he stepped foot into the cell, the inmate could do with him whatever he pleased, and no one would be coming in to save him.

They didn’t call it a final meal for nothing, after all. Many a last visitor had been consumed this way. Christopher certainly wasn’t naive to that fact.

And even if he had been, Luci and Moses had been clear in painting exactly what a risk this would be. They’d pulled out pamphlets and everything during their talks.

But he wasn’t to be deterred. 

“Yes,” Christopher said softly. He watched the guard take a moment to comprehend what his puny human lips were communicating, understanding dawning in his singular eye.

“You’re very young,” The guard spoke into the translator.

Christopher had heard those words too often to take offense. He’d be young until the day he died, he suspected.

Maybe that day would end up being today.

The elevator lurched to a stop, a sanitary smell soaking inward even before the door opened. The guard grabbed the handles of Christopher’s chair before he could speak up, pushing him down the narrow hall.

This, too, Christopher was too used to to take offense. He knew his brother may be irritated if he were with him. All the more reason to deter Moses.

His pulse was so noisy in his ears that it almost disguised the eerie silence. Row after row of locked doors lined the hallway. A prisoner in each, tucked away until their inevitable expiration.

They stopped at the second to the last one on the left. The sound of keys jingling was primitive, and Christopher couldn’t help but marvel for a moment at the fact that the inmate, who’d been so imposing throughout his childhood, could so easily be contained with a lock and key.

Or five locks, as it turned out, as the guard undid bolt after bolt, pausing only at the final one.

“You’ve signed all the papers, but I must ask, are you certain you want to go through with this?”

“Yes.”

“And you accept the consequences, no matter what he decides to make of you in his final hours?”

“Yes.”

“You’re just so young,” The guard said again. Translated or not, the sorrow was evident in his tone.

He was 19. Old enough to own his teleportation license (though, like most who relied on mobility devices, he greatly preferred traveling by quick transport ships instead--slower, but more reliable, less likely to fuse him with the spokes of his own wheels). Old enough to live on his own--or, at the very least, with his brothers. Perhaps, if he survived this, he might look into more independence. Perhaps that was what everyone saw on him, the utter helpless dependency that radiated from him. Need. That, perhaps, was what painted him as a perpetual child.

The brief fluttering of longing for solitude was immediately snuffed by the terror of breaking away from his brothers. No, he decided. He liked his position in the apartment. It was smaller than what they’d grown up with, but he liked that too. There was an intimacy to the shared space. 

He liked his life, he decided, as the key fit into the lock. He liked being alive.

He liked that the pain he felt everyday, ever present, was all his own. That it wasn’t amplified or coaxed forth with further abuses and traumas. He liked being autonomous.

Why the hell had he come here?

“W-” He started to protest, a single letter on his lips, as the final lock came loose.

The door opened to brilliant sunset orange walls, a wide-set one way viewing screen mounted on the furthermost wall, and multitudes of pictures crudely tacked into place. His own face, youthful and frowning, stared back from several of them. Judging.

Seeing him, even in their own smallness, for the child he was forever doomed to be.

The guard pushed on the handles of his chair, the ground smoothly eaten away by his wheels as he was guided into the room. Christopher blinked, the brightness of the room startling compared to the relative dimness of the hallway. His head turned backwards, watching the crisp uniform of the guard shift against his gelatinous body as he exited, tail swishing as though in a final goodbye to this evening’s last meal.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted-

“Chrissie.”

The voice belonged within his ears, had been built to be inside his head, had never exited in the first place. The familiar depths of it, a composed sophistication etched with a childish glee, a socialite’s poise with a sadist’s pure adoration.

He heard the sound of bedsprings shifting, and finally found himself able to turn his head. Christopher’s hands moved down to his wheels, brushing for comfort against the rubber, the very minor flecks of imperfections. He’d had to downgrade to a manual model after they’d lost the manor, lost their fortune, but Moses always took such great care to prioritize maintenance, often to his own detriment. He was so good. He was so good and Christopher wanted to go home, he wanted to go home now, he wished he’d let him come with in the first place, what was he thinking? He was just a kid, he was just a kid, and he was scared, he was scared, he wanted to go home-

“Daddy.”

The urge to fold the word up and swallow it was instantaneous. He hadn’t referred to him, verbally or mentally, in such a way in years. Always by his name--not his title, either, but his name. Archelaus. Sometimes Archie, if he was feeling particularly rebellious. Not father. Never dad.

Certainly not daddy.

But that was what he’d always been, wasn’t it? His daddy. Christopher had been 12 to the day on the afternoon of sentencing. His eldest brother had quietly promised a birthday party which would never come.

He didn’t think he’d properly celebrated a birthday since. It hadn’t occurred to him now that he might have missed them.

Maybe that was the source of permanent youth. The boy without a birthday.

Regardless, he’d just turned 12 when his father had received the terminal sentence. Archelaus had smiled throughout.

He’d been wearing glasses, Christopher remembered abruptly. He’d been wearing glasses, gold-rimmed and delicate, and it had struck him as strangely vulnerable to see him like that. He hadn’t even realized he’d needed corrective lenses, though Luci had gently teased him for his confusion. Of course their father had worn contact lenses, didn’t you remember the time-

He hadn’t bothered to listen to the rest of the anecdote, or if he had he couldn’t remember the conclusion now.

Whatever the case, he was wearing his glasses now, or rather a pair of glasses--these were black rather than gold, plastic and considerably cheaper. Adeona II, he knew, offered surgical services for their inmates, including corrective surgeries for vision.

So either Archie liked the look of glasses on his face, or he’d opted out for other reasons. Or, perhaps like Christopher, his issues were more pronounced than a single surgical fix could undo.

Christopher realized he didn’t know, he couldn’t even piece together which was the most likely hypothesis, and he also realized he never would know. That he would never be able to ask, because they only had 12 hours until sunrise, assuming he’d be alive that long in the first place.

And anyway, the single use of the word ‘daddy’ had seemed to drain his ability to speak completely. He swallowed, and watched the smile on his father’s lips grow.

He looked older, Christopher thought. His hair had sparkled with silver during the trial, but now it had consumed the majority of his scalp, the locks still thick and well proportioned despite his age. A few more creases had formed at the corners of his deep blue eyes, and around his mouth. And he’d grown thinner, though his posture, at least perched against the edge of the bed as he was, remained impeccable. 

“Oh Chrissie,” He breathed. “You look just the same as I remember.”

Christopher couldn’t decide if that was a positive or a negative. He didn’t know if he was glowing under the obvious approval that the statement implied, or if he bristled about, once again, being regarded as a child.

He hadn’t long to think about it, for his father was rising to his feet. He towered above him, every inch magnified with Christopher’s growing uneasiness. His eyes moved away, taking in the surroundings. The cutlery that remained on the small table from his father’s evening meal gleamed a warning back at him. Were the prongs of that fork to make their way into his body? Was he to be sliced away, bit by bit, with no one to intervene?

The thud of a cane against the ground startled Christopher back to awareness. His father still stood straight, proud, even as he seemed to drag his right leg as he walked, an awkward shuffle. He leaned against the cane with one hand, his other hand reaching out and stroking through Christopher’s hair. It trickled through his fingertips like water, and Christopher trembled even before his touch reached his skin.

He prayed it wouldn’t feel familiar.

But his prayers were never acknowledged. He didn’t know why Luci spent so many hours devoted to his religious texts, for he’d never felt the touch of salvation for himself.

The only touch he’d ever known, that he was doomed to forever know, was that of his daddy.

His skin felt heavy and hot where he cradled him, breathing unsteady, though Christopher kept his expression neutral.

“What happened to your leg?”

It appeared his voice had returned, at least, a bored monotone no matter how much emotion actually raged within him.

Archelaus laughed softly. “My infamy made me particularly unappealing to my colleagues. Of course, that was before solitary. In a way, perhaps, I almost preferred the thrill of their violence to the tedium of being alone. You can’t begin to imagine how lonely I’ve been, Chrissie.”

Christopher thought of all the milestones he’d never experienced. His father had supposedly homeschooled him until he was taken away, though given the assessments he received afterwards, and the struggles with actual homeschooling with his brothers, he hadn’t exactly picked up much practical knowledge. He’d never had a best friend or owned a pet or gone to prom or been kissed.

Well.

He’d never been kissed by anyone except for-

“Don’t feel bad for you,” Christopher found himself reverting into his younger verbal tics, and cleared his throat. Clarify. He needed to clarify. “You did this to yourself.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Archelaus mused. His palm pressed outright against Christopher’s cheek. “Yet you came to say goodbye all the same.”

Christopher felt him brush his thumb over his cheekbone. He tried to remind himself of his rights to his own body. Seven years to learn consent, to learn that it was okay to say no. Seven years to reclaim all that had once belonged to him.

All undone with one hand, large and warm and all encompassing. He didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull away either. His eyes stared at the front of his father’s prison jumper, the frayed material carefully stretching over his frame. He needed a new one.

He wouldn’t need one though, not after tomorrow. That was right. None of this mattered. None of this really mattered. Twelve hours and it would be over one way or another.

“You shouldn’t touch me,” Christopher said softly. He still couldn’t turn his face away.

The stroking of his thumb stilled, but the pressure against him remained, as his father offered another amused laugh. “And why is that?”

“I’m-”

“You’re a man now, aren’t you? Yes. 19, right? Did you think I could forget? I remembered every birthday, Chrissie. Didn’t you get my letters?”

He hadn’t.

He hadn’t gotten anything.

A twist of discomfort itched inside him, before he reminded himself who was speaking to him. His father was a dangerous, manipulative, evil man. If he were to choose between the theory of his brothers hiding his mail versus his father simply not sending anything at all, he’d choose the latter every time.

“You didn’t, did you? Of course they’d try to keep you from me. Yet you came all the same. Why is that?”

He considered telling him he’d come to see him executed. His transport shuttle was meant to arrive before the actual execution time, should there be anything left of Christopher to collect at any rate, but he knew he could speak to the warden and be admitted to the observation room if he truly wanted to.

Maybe telling him that would make Christopher feel better, and make Archelaus feel betrayed and low. 

But he didn’t say any of that at all.

“Closure,” He finally said.

“Closure,” His father repeated, curious and amused, always so amused. Christopher’s fingers brushed over his wheels again, trying to calm himself once more. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like being condescended to. Being laughed at. He’d nearly forgotten how above him his father truly was.

Even in his cheap glasses and his tattered jumpsuit.

“What closure are you looking for, Chrissie?”

He wanted to erase that name from his father’s lips. He wanted to slap his hand away. He wanted to stand, to defy the chronic pain that contorted him over the years until walking was no longer even a fantasy, and stand. He wanted to stand, physically and psychologically, against his father. Just once. If he could do it once, it would break something, shatter those shackles, let him be a man instead of a child.

“I don’t know.” He finally said. His voice was tiny and pitiful, and he offered no protest as his father tilted his chin up, forcing eye contact.

“I’ve missed you terribly.”

He hated the lump that formed in his throat upon hearing that. Christopher kept his face still.

“Oh.”

“I think you missed me too.” He brushed his thumb over Christopher’s bottom lip. Christopher felt it fall open, his teeth exposed for his father’s admiration. “That’s why you came, isn’t it? You knew the danger, you know the awful things I’ve done. That I could do to you now.” 

Christopher turned his face to the side finally, separating his mouth from his father’s touch. “No.”

“No what?”

“No, I didn’t miss you.” It came out trembling though, tense, and he realized all too deeply how much of a lie it was.

He didn’t have to see Archelaus’ face to know he knew it too.

“Christian is rubbing off on you,” He cooed. “You’re trying to sound so grown up.”

He moved gracefully, especially considering the cane, as he dropped himself to his knees before Christopher. His hands lightly brushed over his knees, over atrophied muscle and synapses that had only known pain. And Christopher found himself looking into his eyes, deep and devastating and evil and so painfully sincere.

“But you’re still my baby boy, aren’t you, Chrissie?”

Christopher could do nothing as his father moved forward, his kneeling form leaving him at eye level to his son. Their lips danced around each other for a few dangerous moments, before they touched.

He couldn’t remember the first time his father had kissed him. Certainly there must have been a time in his young life where his father hadn’t used him, certainly there must have been a time when he was pure and untouched and clean. 

He couldn’t recall it though. Sometimes he thought his earliest memories were filled with this, the taste of his own father’s tongue. Sticky, warm, bitter, filling his own smaller mouth with so much passion and control.

Christopher was bigger now, but his mouth still felt so tiny as his father dominated it. He felt his head tip back as Archelaus fell closer to him, the weight of him heavy against his delicate lap. The limbs strained in protest, and he let out the smallest of whimpers, caught in daddy’s teeth effortlessly.

“I could kill you,” He said as he broke the kiss, their saliva still connecting their lips. Christopher’s lips remained parted as he struggled to catch his breath. His father held his face between both hands, laughing fondly, the motion breaking the strands of spit which had so poetically united them. “I could slit your throat and use your body until they take me away. You wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

“I never could,” Christopher said.

He’d always been at his mercy. All the years he’d spent, twisted and maneuvered around his own father’s cock, as though he’d been born just to be a sleeve for him. Maybe that really was his purpose. Maybe that was why he couldn’t find work now, because he wasn’t made for capitalistic consumption, but for daddy’s.

His lip wobbled, just a little. 

Archelaus’ eyes sparkled affectionately. “That’s right. You remember so well. You always were such a smart, good boy. My good little bunny. Come here.”

Christopher felt his father slip his hands underneath his arms. Surely he wouldn’t be able to lift him. He was too big now, heavier than his frail form looked within the chair certainly, and his father was broken himself now. 

His father rose to his feet, and hefted Christopher with him. He felt his body peel away from the chair, arms instinctively moving around his neck, their faces so close he could feel his breath.

It was too much. He turned his head away, burying it into his father’s neck. He heard him laugh, and felt himself tremble, as his body was cradled, bridal-style. Just like when he was small.

The gait was different though. He could feel the unsteadiness of his father’s steps, the way he limped towards the mattress. But he placed Christopher down gently, laying him upon his twin sized mattress. It was uncomfortable, lumpy, and Christopher felt a wave of sudden sorrow for his father, spending all his years in this cell, alone and hurt and probably sleeping poorly. 

Then Archelaus was pouring himself on top of him, clasping his face in his palms again, as he kissed him.

Christopher kissed his father, and thought of the initial news reports. They’d blurred the bodies, the tiny mangled corpses, as they’d been excavated from the backyard.

He’d always dreamed about being a normal kid, about being able to run and skip and roll about in the yard. But there was no ramp down the steps, and anyway his father had forbidden it anyway.

He hadn’t realized it was a graveyard until the reports, though. Hadn’t realized he hadn’t been daddy’s only special little boy--or rather, he’d assumed he was the only remaining one of the right age, for certainly his elder siblings had aged out of their own brand of fatherly attention. But here it was, the proof that he hadn’t been alone.

That he hadn’t been enough.

He still felt nauseated when he considered it, those initial feelings of toxic jealousy. Jealousy! Towards his father’s harem of murdered children.

How could any single individual possibly be so sick?

“Tell me,” Archelaus’ voice was husky. Christopher twisted against the bed, only for his father to use his weight to pin him into place. “Tell me, what you came here to confront me about.” He pecked his lips, then moved down to his neck. “Claim your closure while I still have you.”

Christopher swallowed his whines. He looked up at the ceiling, a similar orange to the walls. And felt the corners of his lips twitch, just a little. “Your favorite color.”

His father paused, just long enough to give his collarbone a small nibble, before he glanced up in acknowledgement. “It’s for morale. They let us choose the color.”

“You match.” He tugged at the sleeve of his father’s jumpsuit.

“In retrospect, I probably would have chosen a different look for the decor.” His voice was goodnatured as he sat up, straddling Christopher’s hips. Stuck underneath him, the difference in their size was more stark than he’d realized.

How had he ever taken him as a little boy?

Christopher felt himself blush, as though he were remembering a fond moment, as if he were reminiscing about the maidenly loss of his virginity. 

He couldn’t remember it, the exact moment which had been the first time. It all built together, stacked on top of each other. Tearing, clawing, so much pressure that he thought his insides might burst. 

He needed to get out of here.

But instead he found himself staring as his father stripped the jumpsuit off, peeling it from his arms, his chest, his stomach. He finally rose, but Christopher remained completely still as though the weight remained upon him, his stomach heavy, filled with rocks and dread and confusion.

His father wore no undergarments, his cock indecently hard and darkened and familiar, familiar in all the ways a boy shouldn’t know their father. Christopher had never known the touch of anyone else.

He suspected he never would.

And that had little to do with whether or not he survived tonight.

Stepping out of the leg holes of the garment, Archelaus moved onto the bed again, the dip of the mattress making Christopher nauseated, motion sick. His father rubbed his stomach. He used to do that for him before, when he’d lie in bed too sick to join the family for meals. His father would come in, with a bowl of soup and a cool washcloth, and he’d sit by him, spoonfeeding him, then rubbing his stomach. 

Why was he thinking about that now? He closed his eyes, and thought of the newspaper headlines, the intergalactic coverage of their home, the way their mother had disappeared in the midst of it, the way his eldest brother had to cancel his plans for college and find them an apartment, and it wasn’t Christopher’s fault, he knew it wasn’t his fault, so why did he have so many murky memories of Moses having to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault? Why would he even need that reassurance in the first place?

Why hadn’t he been enough?

Why hadn’t he been enough?

“You’re going to fuck me, aren’t you?” It was a stupid question, but Christopher needed to hear it. He needed his father to say it. To tell him he was going to fuck him, that he was going to ruin him again.

His shirt inched upward, and his father’s palm was against his bare stomach. 

“Yes,” Archelaus said. “Yes, I’m going to fuck you.” His hand slipped down, fingertips pressing into the waistband of his pants. “Do you want me to stop?”

Christopher’s toes clenched downward, only to remind him he was still wearing his shoes. He was wearing his shoes on the bed. Daddy would scold him for that-

No, daddy was right here. His glasses were crooked and his hair was a mess and his hand was working its way into his pants again, and Christopher was grown now. He was grown, a grown man, a real grown up, and he could say no. He could say no. He just had to say no.

No.

Yes. He needed to say yes. He’d asked him if he wanted him to stop. So he said yes. Right? He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to say, and his skin felt too sticky and his breath was frantic and he couldn’t seem to swallow.

“I don’t know.” He finally croaked.

His father’s hand was fully submerged now, palm resting so familiarly against his underwear. Christopher’s cock twitched in acknowledgement, and he had to look away to avoid his father’s grin.

He could remember once, his eldest brother giving him a bath. And he’d spun him a story about how he wasn’t their real brother at all. “You’re only half human,” He’d said, huffy and smirking and proud.

“No,” Christopher had replied, before Christian (at least, he’d still gone by that then) was dumping a cupful of water over his head. He hadn’t sputtered, though the water had gone up his nose unpleasantly, instead frowning in confusion up at the older boy.

He looked like their father, but softer, smaller, less cruel but more angry. “That’s why you have both parts,” He’d said, pointing between Christopher’s legs to articulate his point. “Father fucked an alien, and you have the parts to prove it.”

Maybe, Christopher thought now, his father squeezing his small cock while his cunt grew wetter, maybe it would have been easier if his brother was right. To be something inhuman, something of the stars. He’d met other cultures, through travels with his father on business, and afterwards, on the rare outings with one of his siblings. Aliens. And some of them certainly were anatomically similar, right?

Maybe Christopher wasn’t a child at all. Maybe he just wasn’t human.

Maybe he was just a creature.

A monster.

An other.

Something, something ill crafted and ill born of infidelity and passion, and that was why he was like this.

He found himself lifting his hips as his father pulled his hand out of his pants and began to undress him. He lifted his hips and closed his eyes.

His father licked him, over his underwear. He pushed Christopher’s thighs apart, and nestled between them, and licked and sucked at the fabric of his underwear as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Christopher’s cock never really grew fully hard, even when deeply aroused, always a little too soft, pliant, a little too different from the men he’d watch on his holographic screen.

But he was dizzy, dizzy in all the ways he got when excited. His father’s tongue outlined him, and his cunt fluttered and throbbed.

“You hurt me,” Christopher said. Because he’d rehearsed it in his head, before coming here. He’d rehearsed confronting him. His father had hurt him, had hurt all of them. He’d destroyed them. “Didn’t deserve that.”

Archelaus glanced upward, as his mouth loosely wrapped around him through his underwear. Sucking, just enough suction to make Christopher gasp. 

“Hurt you?” He said as he pulled his mouth away. His fingers took Christopher’s underwear, wriggling them down his thighs, then leaving them bunched around his ankles. “Chrissie, I love you. How could I resist?”

Christopher found himself watching him, as he brushed the tip of his nose against the underside of his cock, briefly, then ran his tongue along his cunt. “You ruined me,” He said softly.

“I made you.”

“You broke me.”

His father’s look was puzzled, as he turned his face, kissing Christopher’s inner thigh. “I love you. I always loved you.” He slipped a finger inside him, thrusting it shallowly within the tightness of his body. Christopher was tense, wet but tight, and he wasn’t certain he’d be able to take much more. Even this finger was stretching him almost painfully.

It had never stopped his father before. Why should it stop him now?

“Tell me no,” Archelaus added. “Tell me you don’t want me. That you didn’t know this would happen, that you want this to stop. And I’ll let you leave.”

“You can’t unlock the doors to let me out.”

His father grinned, his free hand taking off his glasses and setting them to the side. “Then I’ll let you sleep in my bed until the guards let you out. I certainly won’t be getting any rest tonight.”

“Are you scared?” The question was spontaneous, and Christopher realized with the unpracticed words that he’d nearly moaned into them. His father curled his finger within him and a full body shudder rocked through him.

“Scared? Of my execution, you mean?”

Christopher nodded.

“Certainly not. There’s an eroticism to death. I wish you could join me, as I perished. Riding me, as I take my final breaths.” He sighed. “I should have killed us both before the trial. You were so perfect then. You know, there’s rumored to be a district in the Potena quadrant that specializes in de-aging technology. Mostly utilized for celebrity beauty culture, shamefully enough, but think of the fun we could have had, with something like that. I could have kept you preserved and small forever.”

Christopher hated the part of himself that felt his heart drop, at the implied loss of his own value with his age. 

His father worked a second finger into him, and Christopher let out a small, pained breath.

“But no, as you were asking. I am not afraid of dying. I’d prefer it on my terms, but my life has been filled with beauty.” He drew both fingers out suddenly, trailing Christopher’s wetness over his thighs, then lifting his fingers to his lips and sucking them clean. “You still taste so good, Chrissie.”

“Daddy,” He breathed. He wasn’t sure if it was protest or gratitude.

“I don’t hear you saying no.”

No.

Christopher’s throat clenched tight, his lips pressing together firmly, tongue flopping uselessly within his mouth. His shirt felt too itchy and tight against his chest, as his father moved between his legs, kneeling before him. The head of his cock briefly brushed over Christopher’s, dwarfing it in size. His father’s was more veined, thicker, the head more obviously detailed. Everything about his own cock seemed softer in comparison, muted, as though someone had photographed it, then used several filters to blur the outlines. 

He tried not to stare. He really did. But how could he look away, as his father rubbed himself against him, and moaned his name.

“Oh, Chrissie,” He sighed. “Oh, baby boy, just tell me no. And I’ll know, I’ll know you’re a man now, and I’ll let you go. You’ll be free forever. Just say no.”

“You wouldn’t stop, even if I said no.”

His father leaned in, and Christopher’s lips pursed before they even touched. He kissed him, as he adjusted his cock downward, easing it into Christopher. The head pressed inside him, tight, so impossibly tight, Christopher’s body clenching down around him.

“Perhaps not,” His father admitted as he pulled back, with one last swipe of his tongue over Christopher’s lips. “But now you’ll never know, will you?”

He fucked him slowly. Christopher felt himself burn, his aching thighs folded open, as his father moved within him. He could see the outline of him through his skin, thick and fat and lengthy, as he thrust in and out. Christopher lay there, limp at first, eyes staring up at the orange ceiling, then having his face guided by his father’s hands to look at him, to look into his eyes, then to look down to watch his own rape again.

He hadn’t said no.

He hadn’t said no. And he was grown. He was a grown adult.

It wasn’t rape.

It wasn’t rape.

He’d known this would happen. He’d known, and he’d asked Moses not to come. If Moses had come, this wouldn’t have happened. Or maybe it would have, maybe they both would have been hurt, but it wouldn’t have been their fault. It wouldn’t have been Christopher’s fault. 

He’d known this would happen.

And he let it happen.

He let this happen.

He wanted this. He’d always wanted this.

“Why wasn’t I enough?” He cried out, tears springing to the corners of his eyes. His father gathered him into his arms, warm strong paternal arms, as he rocked in and out of him, the pressure building and tearing. “Why wasn’t I enough? Daddy, daddy, tell me I’m enough, tell me I’m enough, daddy, tell me-”

“Shh.” Christopher pushed himself forward, towards the soft shush of his lips, and tasted him. He opened himself to him, let him into his mouth, his body, his everything. He cradled his father’s face, felt every itch of wrinkle and soft flesh against his palms, stroked his thumbs over his hardened, immaculate cheekbones. He opened his eyes, and drowned in the blue that peered back at him. 

“Please,” He said as he pulled back.

“Of course you’re enough, Chrissie.” His father groaned lowly, one hand slapping out to rest against the wall behind them, the other hand cradled against Christopher’s lower back, as he started fucking him more frantically. “You’re everything to me, baby boy. My sweet little bun. My angel. Everything. Oh, Chrissie, you can’t ever, ever doubt my love for you.”

He hadn’t even felt the pleasure of it. He’d felt the pain, the pressure, the ownership of it. Degrading and pitiful and horrific.

But his father stole an orgasm from him all the same. Christopher cried out, arching against the bed, as his daddy moved within him. His hips spasmed pathetically, rocking frantically towards his father’s cock. More. More. He needed to feel more. His orgasm seemed to last forever, yet not nearly long enough.

Archelaus grasped at Christopher’s shirt, the fabric effortlessly tearing as he pulled it apart. His hands encompassed his flat chest, resting against his nipples, against his heart, and Christopher couldn’t look away from the almost pained look on his father’s face as he fell into his own climax. The feeling of his cum inside him was sickening, familiar.

Closure.

The entire ride here, he’d tried to memorize scripts of what he’d say, how he’d speak to his father, if he was given the opportunity to survive the evening. All the ways he’d demand explanations, apologies.

Instead, Christopher found his tender body twisted and contorted and used, thrown over every surface of furniture in the cell. Cum filled his cunt, his mouth, his ass. He was stretched and rotated and kissed and fondled, orgasm after orgasm coaxed from him beyond the point he thought he could stand.

Frantic. So much time to make up for. All the years his father could have been abusing him, while stashed away from the light of day.

Christopher’s mind was murky and confused, twisted and melting, his hands caressing where they were demanded to caress, his lips kissing what they were demanded to kiss.

His father murmured words of love and devotion, and Christopher knew no one else would ever fit him like this.

He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing anymore.

They lay in the bed as the twin suns of Adeona II breached the horizon, though there were no windows for them to witness the marvel of blue sunlight over the tundra. Christopher’s head rested against his father’s chest, listening to him breathe, his father’s fingers working softly within his cum-filled cunt.

“They’ll let you shower, before you go,” Archelaus said softly, kissing the top of his head. “Though I wish you’d keep me in you just a little longer.”

Christopher didn’t know what to say to that. He closed his eyes, listening to his pulse for a few seconds.

“I think you really ruined my life,” He finally said.

“Probably,” Archelaus conceded. “But wasn’t it worth it?”

How was he to answer that? It wasn’t as though he knew anything but this. The cold shame of realizing his brothers would know, would see him and the hickeys on his neck and the stench of his own lustful desperation and the torn shreds of his shirt and know, they would know, washed over him. 

His father moved his fingers inside him in just the right way to get the knot in his stomach to tighten in anticipation. Now, now he could acknowledge the pleasure, somewhere deep in the mist of his own absolute confusion.

“Do you think you have the closure you needed?” He asked after another moment of fingering him.

Christopher really didn’t know how to answer that. His father laughed, and he bit him, softly, a scrape of teeth to flesh that wouldn’t have time enough to fester into a bruise.

The guards came not long after, his father seeming to delight in the ways they averted their gaze from Christopher’s naked, stained, uncomfortably human body. They murmured among themselves in their own language, before one approached, translator to mouth, ordering Christopher to dress, so that he could be escorted to the nearest bathing station.

Standard protocol, for those last meals who survived.

Christopher sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his underwear on over his sticky body, and then his pants, the shredded remains of his shirt still hanging from him even after the hours and hours of using him. He glanced back at Archelaus, at his father, at his daddy, and realized all too abruptly that this would be his last chance to say anything.

An accusation?

An apology?

A declaration of love?

His father’s face was soft, as he pulled on his own jumpsuit, then placed his glasses into place. His hands were grasped by the other guard, taken behind his back and cuffed together. “It’s okay, Chrissie,” He said. “I know.”

What? What did he know?

Christopher was guided to his wheelchair, and the guards pushed him towards the bathing station, just down the hall from his father’s cell. The showers looked clean, not too dissimilar from Earthly designs, but Christopher shook his head.

“I’m fine.” He could feel every bit of cum within him, against him, could feel every inch of himself that his father had touched.

What had he known? What had he known of Christopher that he didn’t know of himself?

Their insistences were ignored, until they finally led him to the elevator. He didn’t want to think about where the other guards had taken his father. Was he to be showered as well first? Cleaned up, then marched to his execution? The weight in Christopher’s stomach was sharp and painful. 

He declined the invitation to view the execution, instead sitting outside in the cold, cum cooling all the quicker upon and within him, as he waited for the shuttle that would take him back to his apartment.

What had he known?

The driver made the diplomatic choice not to acknowledge the state of his passenger, helping him in, then folding his chair up and placing it within the vehicle as well. Christopher looked towards the prison, staring as though he could peer through the walls, to see him one more time.

His father had said that he was enough.

Christopher tried to swallow, his lip shaking as he looked back inside the shuttle instead. The driver said something in broken English, a dialect of some planet his father probably knew more about than Christopher did. 

His daddy had always known so much.


End file.
